


Detective's Best Friend

by Elizabeth Watson-Holmes (edye327)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edye327/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Watson-Holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John get a dog. Mostly fluff with a bit of hurt/comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detective's Best Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely cowriter, shrloch on tumblr, who was much more organized than I was.

_i._   

“It’s quite obvious.”

“Is it.”

“Yes. If she’d been really serious about wanting our help, she would have come to us sooner. Clearly, she’d put it off as long as she possibly could, and only brought her husband along so as to avoid raising suspicion. The fact that she eluded every question during our meeting was a blatant indication of her involvement.”

“So what, _she_ stole the money?”

“Obviously. Open and shut case, really. Boring.”

John said nothing, continuing to pick at what was left of his meal. As usual, Sherlock was eating nothing, only sipping a strongly-sugared coffee and glancing broodily out the window of the café .

A moment passed in which John sincerely attempted to make sense of the case in his head. He tilted his head thoughtfully to the side, took a deep breath, and asked,

“You _really_ don’t think the husband knew?”

Sherlock eyed him disdainfully. “For god’s sake, John, the man spent the entire interview maintaining one of the most dimwitted expressions I’ve witnessed on a client in months. His guilty charade, if it could even be classified as such, was comical.”

“Right, then.”

John tried to finish his meal in peace, but the tapping of his boyfriend’s leg under the table finally got to him. “Sorry, am I boring you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock stood abruptly and strode out the door, and, with an eye roll and twenty-pound note tossed on the table, John followed.

The cool autumn air bit at his cheeks as he hurriedly did up his jacket, dodging pedestrians in an attempt to catch up with the man currently storming down the street. Not a single intriguing case had fallen into their laps in weeks, and Sherlock was growing increasingly restless, rushing about and becoming frustrated with every little thing. Their wall could only take so many bullet holes, but despite John’s best efforts, neither he nor Lestrade could dig up anything to keep the detective occupied.

“Sherlock,” he shouted, “Could you just –”

But he was pushed – or, rather, tossed – to the side by a bounding black mass of fur. As he straightened himself, he looked ahead and saw the crowded sidewalk part to make way for a large and extremely excited dog who had apparently broken free from its owners and was racing along the pavement, dragging its leash along for the ride.

Directly towards Sherlock, who remained completely unaware.

Before John could call out, the massive animal leapt up onto his boyfriend’s coat, and he immediately expected the absolute worst. Shouting, maybe; a hauling of the dog by the nape of the neck back to its owners; perhaps a lecture directed at said owners, outlining the exact ways in which they could better their apparently incompetent pet-keeping skills.

The actual result was directly opposite of any possibility the doctor could have come up with.

Sherlock jumped, startled, and immediately moved forward and wrenched the fabric of his jacket out of the dog’s claws. But upon the realization that it was exactly that – a dog – he did not react as he would in any other situation.

To John’s utter bewilderment, he softened.

Slightly confused, Sherlock gave the animal a few reluctant pats on the head and gently pushed it back down onto all fours. He bent to pick up the long black leash and looked around, repeatedly dodging the frankly ecstatic dog down as it continued to jump at him.

As John stopped a few steps away and watched in surprise, a couple rushed down the street towards his boyfriend, who had calmed the dog down enough to keep it from straining on the leash. When they reached him they stopped and caught their breath.

“God, I’m so sorry,” said one of the women. “He can be so frantic half the time, there’s no telling when he might make a run for it. He just takes off. Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m quite fine, thank you.” Sherlock handed the leash to the other woman, who straightened from her bent-over-heaving position and smiled wearily. “You really should, well, hold on tighter.”

The women laughed. “Right, mate, we’ll give it a go,” said the shorter one, patting the dog’s head and winding the black leather strap of the leash tightly around her hand. “Sorry again.”

Sherlock nodded and stepped aside to let them continue on their way. John watched him as he began to delete the memory, or at least compartmentalize it in the furthest corners of his mind palace – but he caught the hint of a certain emotion before it was hidden away.

 _Fondness_.

John Watson felt the beginnings of an idea blooming.

* * *

_ii._

John peered keenly over the top of his newspaper.

"What?" said Sherlock, picking at a slice of toast and scrutinizing the half-empty marmalade jar.

“Nothing,” John said airily. “I was just thinking.” This statement had the desired effect, as his boyfriend snapped,

“You’re pathetically obvious. Clearly you want something.”

Heaving a dramatic sigh and placing the paper carefully down on the table, John asked slowly, “What are your thoughts on dogs?”

Sherlock frowned and rattled off, “Domesticated, carnivorous mammals. Typical traits include a long snout, acute sense of smell, and a barking, howling, or whining voice. They are, at large, kept as pets or for work or field purposes. Why?”

“I was only wondering if... well, if you would consider getting one. With me.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve always liked dogs, you know, and I never pegged you as much of a dog person, so it hadn’t occurred to me until the other day.”

His boyfriend sniffed disdainfully. “I am not a ‘dog person.’”

John cocked an eyebrow. “Outside the cafe? A giant dog nearly trampled you, and instead of pulling a gun you started petting it.”

“I didn’t have a gun on me.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“Mm. Yes.” Sherlock stood up and brushed crumbs off his shirt front, drifting over to the kitchen island and pacing thoughtfully before turning back to face John. “There is a finite number of plausible reactions when a domesticated animal is charging at you. I opted for the most instinctive alternative.”

“Instinctive for normal people, maybe. But for you?”

“Despite my status as a sociopath, John, I do embody some human characteristics,” said Sherlock dryly.

“I’m not denying that.”

“The implications of your statement –”

“No,” John interrupted, “I’m only saying that it would have been entirely within your right to yell at it, or shove it off and keep walking, or, I dunno, kick it –”

“Do I appear the type to prance around kicking dogs?”

“You smiled at a photo of a beheaded corpse just yesterday.”

“It wasn’t just beheaded,” Sherlock protested, crossing his arms. “It was dismembered, and the victim’s feet were also lacerated. Far more scintillating.”

John smirked and pointed out, “You’re not saying no.”

“I’m not saying yes.”

“Yeah, but you’re not saying no. Does that mean you’ll consider it?”

Sherlock glowered at him before saying flatly, “I see no use for a dog.”

“Dogs are fun. They’re companions. Didn’t you ever have one as a kid?”

The detective stiffened. “Yes. Once. It was not a pleasant experience.”

“Well, it must have been the wrong dog then! We can find a good fit,” John said, excitement increasing as he envisioned his outlandish proposition becoming an actual reality. “Not to mention their intelligence – you, of all people, should appreciate that!”

“It was, I assure you, not a question of a ‘good fit,’” Sherlock said, a bit disparagingly. “I recognize that their cognitive capabilities surpass those of other common household pets. I also recognize that Lestrade’s cognitive capabilities surpass those of a goldfish, but you don’t see me inviting him into our home and feeding him raw meat from a plastic bowl.”

“Disturbing analogy,” John commented. “Also invalid. You’re comparing apples to oranges.”

“That is an absurd expression. Virtually any two objects are comparable to a degree, and both apples and oranges are members of the plantae kingdom.”

“You’re still not saying no,” said John triumphantly, returning to his newspaper.

* * *

_iii._

When John got home the next day, Sherlock’s fingers were flying over the keys of his computer – _John’s_ computer. The detective had a look of total concentration on his face, his brows furrowed and mouth muscles twitching occasionally; he was obviously working on a case.

John cleared his throat. Nothing.

He tried again. Nada.

A third attempt yielded an irascible, “For god’s sake, John, could you possibly keep your abrasive vocal expressions to a minimum for at least thirty seconds upon entering a room?”

 _That_ kind of case, then.

There was no point in trying to further the conversation as he had intended to, John knew, so he simply crossed the room and sat in his chair. Picking up the day’s paper, he flipped the pages as noisily as possible, glancing up occasionally to check his boyfriend’s response (or, in this case, lack thereof). Sherlock remained focused for a solid ten minutes, until all tapping noises ceased and John was met with a stone-cold glare.

A moment stretched out into multiples, lengthening and pulling as both of them refused to look away. Finally John, exasperated, flipped his paper down and stood. Reached into his pocket. Pulled out a brochure. Sherlock’s eyes flitted down only for a moment before he turned back to the screen, and John huffed out a breath, closing the space between them and tossing the leaflet down on the table’s surface.

Sherlock gave no reaction, so he sighed and walked to the kitchen. He could use a cuppa.

* * *

Presumably, Sherlock was under the impression that John could not see him (presumptuous, given that John did have eyes). He assumed that he was alone, and free to show whatever reactions suited him.

He was not.

John had tucked himself into the corner behind the kitchen entryway, silently watching his boyfriend as he slowly stopped typing and took a closer look at the folded booklet beside him. Sherlock appeared almost afraid to reach out and pick it up, as if it would bite him, but overcame this particular fear, lifting it cautiously and silently mouthing the name of the establishment on the front. _Wood Green Animal Shelter_. His lips pursed, as they often did when he was thinking, and before he could stop himself he sat back and unfolded the pamphlet further. John watched as his eyes scanned the text and he began to fully understand.

 _Maybe_ , he thought. _Maybe_.

* * *

_iv._

_Are you busy? SH_

**Not particularly. Why?**

_I need you to come to 601 Lordship Lane, Wood Green. SH_

**You expect me to drop everything and run to a random location at one in the afternoon on a Sunday?**

_You’ve done it before. SH_

**Oh god, does this have to do with that decomposing kidney?**

_No. SH_

_I already solved that. SH_

**Are you going to tell me what lies at 601 Lordship Lane?**

**I’ll have to Google it if you aren’t.**

**And if it’s something sketchy...**

_I fail to comprehend the apparently ominous nature of ellipses. Allowing your sentences to peter out indicates weakness of character. SH_

**That’s what you want to hear from your boyfriend.**

_John. SH_

**What??**

_Please. SH_

**Excuse me?**

_Please. SH_

**Jesus Christ, someone should’ve called me. How hard did that bastard hit you in the head? I’m grabbing my jacket right now. Hang in there.**

_I have not been concussed. SH_

_Hello? SH_

_I assume you are coming. SH_

_Rude of you not to respond. SH_

_Are you panicking? SH_

_Fine. SH_

_See you soon. SH_

* * *

_v._

"Right," said Sherlock, spinning round on his heel the moment John arrived. "Let's go." He began to march purposefully past the sign instructing visitors to check in at the desk and headed towards the swinging doors opposite the entrance, which very clearly said _Employees Only._

"Sherlock.” John grabbed his arm. "We've got to talk to the volunteers first."

"What?"

John sighed in exasperation. "You can't just barge in," he explained patiently.

"That's ridiculous,” snapped Sherlock. “Whyever not? I was under the impression that these institutions exist purely to dispose of dogs that would otherwise come to an untimely death. Euthanization," he clarified. A shadow – sadness? Fear? Remorse? – flickered across his face.

“That’s... all very well, but we have to talk to the attendants first. This isn’t a zoo open for viewing.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Who do I talk to?”

John gestured to the desk. “Possibly the people with nametags?”

“Don’t be hostile, John.”

 _Hostile?_ John frowned. Sherlock, on a regular basis, never accused him of being hostile. Annoying, yes; sarcastic, check; distracting, absolutely. Though the detective was distinctly difficult to read, John suspected that there was something off. Sherlock’s tone held an odd hollowness, and an echo of something unreadable lurked in his expression.

“Don’t try to peer into my soul,” Sherlock said sharply, noting John’s scrutiny as he strode over to the receptionist.

“I don’t think that’s possible,” John muttered, trotting along beside him as they reached the desk.

“Can I help you?” The man was friendly, if nervous, and the white sticker on his t-shirt bore the name Charles.

Sherlock clasped his hands on the countertop and said briskly, "Ah, yes. I would like a dog.”

A clipboard was pushed across the counter. "Okay. Please complete this form," said Charles, rubbing a hand across his stubbly beard, "and we'll be right with you."

Sherlock glared at him. John grabbed the papers and tried to steer his boyfriend towards the chairs.

"Sir?" The volunteer glanced timidly at John. “Is he...?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then rattled off, "I understand the fallout of your breakup has been difficult to cope with. Wonderful girl, was she? Mm. Yes. She made degrading comments, though.” He _tsk_ ed softly. “Insulted your passion for helping animals, made you feel like you weren’t ambitious enough.” Charles gaped at him. “I see. So you took the first job that you could find in this field – clearly, this is your first week; look at your fingernails, gnawed to the cuticle, and nobody’s that fastidious about their desk accessories if they’ve been working longer than a month in the same space and –”

“Sherlock, that’s enough,” John said, horrified. He hadn’t done this in a long time, not to random strangers who weren’t involved in a case.

Sherlock ignored him and continued, “And thus you have developed chronically low self esteem. A luckless condition – how unfortunate. Letting a woman reduce you to such a state.” John was starting to panic. “Pity, really,” the detective drawled. “Too bad you don’t have other interests.” He paused, tilted his head. “Do you?” Silence. “No? Very well. Now, I don’t have time for this rubbish” – he jabbed a finger at the paper and leaned closer – “and I would like to access the kennel _now_.” John waited: surely Sherlock wouldn’t be so rude as to leave out a simple “please.” They’d been working on that for ages, and he was getting much better.

John was wrong. His boyfriend merely pursed his lips and waited. Poor Charles appeared dumbstruck. Who could blame him? “I’m so sorry,” John began, but the bloke shook his head.

“It’s okay,” he said, and John stared in astonishment.

“It is? Right. But, er, he was just a _total_ dick to you, and I’m so – Sherlock, what the hell are you –?”

Sherlock had thrust his hands into his coat pockets and was hurrying out the door.

The wrong door.

The exit.

He’d come so close to getting what he wanted, and now he was running away? Something was definitely wrong.

“Is he alright?” asked Charles.

“He’s... no,” John replied. “God, no.”

“Can he manage?”

Sherlock had shoved aside a mother and two children in his rush to flee the building. “I don’t know,” said John. “I guess I’ll find out.”

“All that stuff is true,” put in Charles, before John could move to follow the detective. “What he said about the girl, and everything. I – do you think he said that because he believes I can do better?”

Sherlock? Believe in someone? Voluntary reassurance? John nearly laughed. “No, he said that because he’s an insensitive prick and I’m going to _throttle_ him, Jesus Christ.” Charles looked alarmed. ”Sorry.” John shook his head. “I’ve got to run. We’ll be back. Or not. I...” He left.

His boyfriend was leaning against the building, head half-buried in his coat collar. “I don’t want to,” he said loudly, not looking up.

“Want to what?” John stood a careful distance away.

“Talk about it.” Was that a voice crack?

“Oh. That’s fine.” It was. Watching Sherlock unravel like this was far more upsetting. He knew, however, that waiting was the best approach in these situations. Emotion was rare and painful for his boyfriend, and even the tiniest flicker of feeling was to be respected and treated with utmost tact.

“Redbeard,” Sherlock said suddenly, making eye contact with John. His eyes were glassy with... tears? Shit.

“Come again?” Tentative hand on Sherlock’s arm, quick rub. He didn’t seem to mind.

“I had a dog.”

“And?”

“He died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I guess not. I’m sorry, I wish I could. Death... happens.” Lame. Lame lame lame. “I get that.”

“My childhood years were full of angst and misery,” Sherlock said all in a rush, as if trying to purge his mind of the memory via verbal release. “Redbeard was my one consolation. My singular source of happiness. I was isolated, I was labeled, I was lonely. My dog was there for me.”

“Everybody bonds with their dogs –”

“No. No, John,” he said bleakly, plaintively. “Normal people do. For me to develop a bond with a dog was peculiar, unprecedented, and quite out of character.” Sherlock swallowed, stared out across the parking lot. “We put him down.” His lower lip trembled and his hands shook at his sides.

“I’m sorry,” said John softly. “You know, we can leave if you really don’t want to get a dog. Maybe it’s too soon.”

“He was my first and only friend, for a long time. Until you came along, in fact.”

“I’m glad that I... I’m glad that I could...” Could what? Replace his dead childhood dog? John had to settle for, “Thanks,” though it made absolutely no sense in the context of their conversation.

Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment, fingers tracing the contours of the brick wall behind him. Then, quite surprisingly, he pushed off the side of the building and wrapped his arms around John, burying his face in the older man’s neck. Vulnerability. _Sherlock_.

“Hey,” murmured John, “it’s okay. I mean, you’re...” Bloody hell, he was horrible. Never had Sherlock gotten this upset, nor this outwardly demonstrative. He needed comfort, which John was more than happy to offer. But still.

“Comforting words, thanks,” Sherlock said sarcastically, though he didn’t relinquish his grasp.

John sighed against the detective’s cheek, then pressed a kiss there. “It’ll be okay.”

Sherlock leaned down and pecked his lips, gentle and chaste, then took a step back.

John caressed Sherlock’s palm with his thumb before stepping away. “So do you still want to see the dogs?”

“Will you inflict damage on Charles if he says something idiotic? Preferably of a physical nature.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“I beg your pardon!” Sherlock’s indignance was practically tangible; this did not stop him from heading back into the shelter, albeit continuing to argue, “Why would I be jealous of someone like that?”

John smirked. “Because he’s actually quite intelligent, and you know it. In you go.” He followed the detective inside.

“Ah, you’re back,” said Charles. Sherlock suppressed a retort. “Are you ready?” He jingled his keyring hopefully.

John glanced at his boyfriend, who didn’t protest. That was a yes, then. “Yeah,” he said, seeing as Sherlock was only glowering at the helper.

“Great. Right this way.” Charles paused. “We, ah, decided to forego the paperwork. You can do it after.”

“Very well,” Sherlock said crisply. Then, when Charles didn’t move, instead hovering uncertainly by the doorknob, “Have you forgotten how to operate a lock? You put the key in –”

“Biology,” said Charles. “My other interest.”

Sherlock thought a moment, then gave a quick nod of approval. “Now take us to the kennel.”

* * *

_vi._

Dull silver fences lined the room, holding dogs of all sizes and varying degrees of excitement; clearly, intriguing activities were fleeting at Wood Green kennel. John was a few strides behind his boyfriend, who was snapping his head side to side, intently analyzing the many options before them.

“Right, so we’ve got lots of friendly lads here at Wood Green,” Charles narrated as he led them down the corridor. “It really just depends what you’re looking for.”

When Sherlock didn’t speak up, John took over. “I think we’re looking for something a bit more energetic. We’re in and out quite a lot, so it needs to be able to deal with that.”

“How about affection? Depends on the breed, of course, but some become a bit more attached than others.”

“Well, like I said, we’re running around often for our... job. So it can’t get too upset if we suddenly rush out or anything.” Or, he supposed, it could come along. Lestrade would have a fit.

They continued walking and _god_ , John thought, _how long does this place go on for?_ “Sherlock, what about this one?” He’d stopped in front of a small cocker spaniel with orange colouring and warm brown eyes. “She looks sweet, and she might be okay with us being –”

“No.” There was a definitive tone in his voice that gave John pause. Sherlock had come to a stop, but was deliberately looking away from the cages. “The hair, John. Cocker spaniels shed immensely. I can’t imagine that either of us, nor Mrs. Hudson for that matter, would be content with maintaining that sort of thing. Grooming takes hours of valuable time out of each week, and you’re suggesting that you’d be compliant, which we both know is highly unlikely.”

John frowned, trying to make sense of this response. Unexpectedly, Sherlock hadn’t mentioned anything about research outlets or scientific data in his reply. It was almost as if he knew from experience.

Then it clicked.

“Sherlock.”

“I’d rather not discuss it. Moving on.”

The doctor sighed and followed him, trying his best to put it out of his mind. They continued on behind Charles, who had begun to speak again.

“I’d suggest a shorter coat if grooming would be an –”

All three men looked over as part of the chain-link caging rattled to their left. A relatively large brown and white-speckled dog had leapt up onto its hind legs, and was reaching its paws towards them, trying to grab on to something. After a couple of swipes, his claws caught the pocket of Sherlock’s coat.

Charles and John waited with baited breath for the detective’s reaction.

He looked down, surprised, and, as if on instinct, reached down and scratched the flat of the dog’s head. The animal pushed itself into his touch and panted happily; its tongue even lolled outside of its teeth. Then, remembering himself, Sherlock withdrew and detached the claws that were burrowing into the woven pattern of his coat. He stepped back, ruffling himself and defensively holding his head higher.

John smiled, and repeated, “Sherlock.”

“Yes. Have you an opinion, John?”

“You like this one.”

“I can assure you, I find absolutely no traits in this dog any more appealing than the ones encompassed by the others in this kennel. It’s merely a coincidence that this one happened to jump up at the moment it did.”

“You detest coincidences.”

Sherlock’s mouth only tightened.

“This one’s called Leo,” Charles piped up between them. “He’s a newer one, haven’t seen much of him myself. But the breed – he’s a German Shorthaired Pointer, you see – they’re easily trainable and quite loving. Also, their shedding is much less noticeable than others.”

John tilted his head and tried to catch Sherlock’s eye. “Sherlock? What do you think?”

* * *

_vii._

Sherlock reached for the gate. Charles put out a hand – “Just a moment, sir” – but the detective was busy frowning at the lock.

“Standard issue,” he muttered, then extracted a pin, knelt, and squinted into the keyhole. In one swift move, he successfully picked the lock, swung the gate open, and grabbed the dog by the collar. “We’re done here. John?”

“No, Sherlock, that’s not – I’m so sorry,” he apologized, grabbing Sherlock by the elbow and hissing, “That’s not how it works.”

Sherlock cast him a confused look. The dog wriggled in his arms and licked happily at his chin. “We selected him. Our work here is done.”

“No, Sherlock, I – good lord.” Suppressing the urge to burst out laughing, he turned and faced three more attendants, all of whom appeared understandably peeved.

“Excuse me, did he break into the kennel?” said a woman frostily, whose name tag denoted her as Kim.

“We were actually just discussing that,” John said hurriedly before his boyfriend could open his mouth and worsen the situation. “Bit of a misunderstanding, he hasn’t adopted a pet before –”

“Thank you,” said another woman – Shirley, according to her name tag – reaching for the dog. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave now.”

Sherlock glowered at her, tightening his grip. “He is mine. Ours.” He sighed, rolled his eyes. “John, please explain it to the imbeciles.”

Five pairs of eyes turned to him. John gulped. “Sherlock, this isn’t how it works, okay? We have to sign papers, we can’t just grab the dog and waltz out of here.”

“Whyever not? They’ve an excess of canines here, we’re diminishing the population and therefore aiding their so-called cause."

"That's it, you need to go," said Kim firmly.

"Don't," John said sharply as his boyfriend opened his mouth to either argue or deduce. He didn't know which would be more of a train wreck, and rather did not fancy finding out.

"This is not acceptable," said a male attendant. Kevin. He whipped out an iPhone and brandished it. “I’m going to have to consult with my boss about conduct and your eligibility to –”

“No, please, listen, he’s not like this, normally,” John said hurriedly, trying to snatch at the mobile. “He’s really – he’s just got a bit eager, yeah? We really love your shelter –”

“Correction: we acknowledge the work that you do here, and I quite appreciate Leo, which is no indication of the quality of this establishment.”

_“Leo?”_

Sherlock frowned. “That’s his name, yes.”

“When did we decide – never mind,” said John hastily, realizing that he was in a rather precarious situation. Going out in public with his boyfriend had proven to be more excruciating than bringing a hostile toddler to daycare. Except this particular hostile toddler happened to be walking, talking, and more intelligent than the entire Scotland Yard combined.

“You can’t take the dog,” Kim said, reaching for Leo.

“No,” Sherlock blurted, like a petulant child. Stroppy bastard. John blamed himself. Too much indulgence, on his part.

“Sherlock, you _have_ to relinquish him.”

“‘Relinquish’? And since when have you been quoting the dictionary?”

“Excuse me? I know long words, I just don’t choose to spout them out all the time to annoy the shit out of everyone!”

“This was _your_ idea in the first place,” snapped Sherlock.

“If we could interrupt your couples quarrel to address the issue at hand?” Shirley said dryly.

John gave a huff of annoyance, gritting his teeth. The things he did for this man. “Listen,” he said carefully. “I’m sorry. Sherlock got a bit over-enthusiastic. I agree that his behavior wasn’t... appropriate.” Kim seemed to appreciate this word choice. “And, er, acceptable,” he added, eliciting near-approval from the other attendants. Charles still looked flummoxed. Poor sod. “Anyway. We’d really, really be interested in adopting this dog. I know we got off on the wrong foot, but...” He glanced up and caught the look on Sherlock’s face. Vulnerability, as he wrapped his arms around Leo, like a little schoolboy anxiously awaiting his fate. “Sherlock needs this,” he said softly.

The attendants hesitated, then held a nonverbal conference full of nods and raised eyebrows and grunts. Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently, but stopped immediately when John glared at him.

“Fine,” said Shirley. “We will allot a month-long trial with you and this dog – so long as you comply with our adoption procedures and terms without further audacity – but you will need to return him to the kennel before taking him home. Fair enough?”

“Yes,” John said quickly. Thank _god_. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, and lowered Leo to the ground. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Kim said, somehow managing to smile. She’d been so rigid throughout the entire interaction that John was taken aback. “Let’s do this, shall we?”

* * *

_viii._

Three days passed, and John was nearly at his wit’s end.

Within seventy-two hours of living at 221B Leo had torn up the bottoms of two curtains, nearly chewed the soles out of three pairs of slippers, and knocked countless cups of tea off the coffee table with his infinitely-wagging tail. Neither man could do anything in their flat without hearing a distant crash, scuffle or barking from another room, and Mrs. Hudson’s nerves were strung absolutely fine. And the _food_ required to feed the thing – piles upon piles of whatever pellets the grocery carried, and scraps from dinners (usually most of Sherlock’s untouched meals) were thrown to the ground nightly.

Simply put, John was beginning to view the dog as more of a nuisance than a friendly companion - but of course, Sherlock loved him.

Oh yes, to the detective, the dog was apparently one of the greatest things he’d ever witnessed. John quickly realized that his boyfriend did not, in fact, have any sort of aversion to the species whatsoever other than his past pet. On the contrary, every move Leo made caused either a smirk, giggle, or full-out expression of praise to lift from Sherlock’s lips, and John could do nothing but gape at his boyfriend every time it happened.

And, as one could imagine, John was just _loving_ that.

* * *

By the week mark, he had had it. No matter what he did, he couldn’t get the hyperactive animal to relax, and the stark absence of his favorite tea mug from their shelves was a burning reminder of that fact. Every time he turned around it seemed there was another item broken or damaged, and if he had to patch up one more glaring hole in their sofa, hostages would be held.

They were sitting in their chairs by the mantel one morning, John reading the paper and Sherlock flipping through internet pages while absentmindedly rolling a tennis ball (where had they even acquired a tennis ball?) through the sitting room. Leo bounded after it every time, whining and letting out a triumphant bark whenever he managed to catch it – which was every single time, John noticed with a sizable amount of disdain. He tried to concentrate, but eventually the piercing noises became too much for him. He shoved the paper away from him and stood up.

“Right, that’s it. This bloody dog hasn’t shut up for a week and I’m beginning to think he never will. We have to do something.”

Sherlock didn’t even bother to lift his eyes from the screen. “The shelter officials specifically said that this is common in many dogs when adapting to a new environment. Give him time.”

“I’ve given him enough time! He’s had an entire _week_ and all I’ve got to show for it are three pairs of scrapped slippers, a torn curtain that’s tacking onto our rent and shards of my favorite mug hidden all over the kitchen.”

The detective moved his eyes upwards. “I would have expected you to be flattered. Clearly, he likes us.”

“No – no. He likes _you_ , Sherlock. I’ve no idea why, really, considering I’m the one doing the feeding and cleaning, but he likes you. Not me. _You._ ”

“Yes, well, dogs do seem to like the simple act of repeatedly chasing after balls.” And with that, he tossed the green sphere again and John was nearly bowled over by the lanky animal.

He stood for a moment, staring at his boyfriend incredulously. “I’m going out,” he said tersely, shoving his jacket onto his shoulders. Sherlock, who had returned his focus to the laptop, looked up expectantly. John rolled his eyes and leaned down, pecking him on the cheek. “Wait up.”

* * *

ix.

He was expecting the worst, honestly. Maybe another mug or two broken, or a corner of the carpet chewed up, or papers strewn all over the floor – although the last option could be to Sherlock’s benefit, he supposed. So when he reached the first landing of their stairs, he swore under his breath at the violin music floating through the air. _Brilliant_ , he thought, adjusting his grip on the shopping. _The thing’s probably ripped off half the sofa by now and he’s playing the bloody violin._

He reached the top of the stairs and turned to the kitchen door, ready to blunder through the flat and disrupt as much as was humanly possible, just to get a rise out of his detective. But as he turned, a sight caught his eye. He paused.

Sherlock was gazing out the window, his fingers darting along the strings of his instrument. Some unidentified tune sang out from his hands, swayed back and forth, filled the room. John couldn’t place it, but it was one he’d heard before, one that the detective played when he needed to calm his head, needed to shut off his thoughts and seek refuge from distraction. And apparently it worked on those other than Sherlock as well.

Because Leo lay at his feet, his snout resting on his front paws, eyes trained on the musician. The rare London sun shone through the window, illuminating both owner and pet, their outlines striking in the midafternoon light. There was no tail-wagging, or barking, or snarky commentary; Leo did not so much as breathe heavily from moment to moment.

John gaped.

He couldn’t believe it. Wanted to say something, to speak up, to ask Sherlock what the utter _hell_ had gotten into their dog and why he wasn’t tearing the place apart. But as he tried to open his mouth, he found that he couldn’t. He was actually, literally, speechless.

He’d been suffering the animal’s antics for days, unable to get Leo to calm down for anything – treats, long walks around the park, new toys – and the damn thing responded to the sodding _violin_.

John took a deep breath and backed up into the kitchen, because damned if he was going to break the serenity of the scene, if he was going to activate the insane chaos that regularly came from either his live-in detective or his dog. Neither had been calm in a very long time, and he was going to enjoy this.

The song ended, a final note dissolving into the air as Sherlock lifted his bow from the strings, fingers still dancing along the neck. John braced himself for the sound of crashing or barking or shattering tableware. Instead, he heard only a slight thump of an object – likely a tail – and a huff of breath mixed with a snort. Sherlock chuckled as he started a waltz, all other sounds falling away in favor of the melody that had both detective and dog transfixed.

John leaned unnoticed against the doorframe, watching and listening and finally breathing a sigh of relief. Man’s best friend, indeed.

 


End file.
